Bite Back
by Shadow Griffin
Summary: In the wake of a recurring horror, Lord Elrond finds himself advising his advisor. Erestor-centered, no slash


Well met, everyone! This is a new one for me – I've never tried Lord of the Rings before. It was narrowed down in my mind to either do a quick-fic about Legolas or Erestor – and I decided to do Erestor. This idea just popped in my mind and I had to just…put it down. I've wanted to write a fic for these books for so long but I just never had the ammo to do it with. This one just sorta… popped up.

Even though she had no warning and probably won't read this, this is dedicated to PenAndInkPrincess – just for writing reviews for everything I've put on my other stories!

**Summary:** In the wake of a recurring horror, Elrond finds that he's advising his advisor.

**Disclaimer: **I think the fifty or sixty-odd years in between my life and J.R.R. Tolkein's makes it blatantly obvious who owns the characters and who doesn't. You get three guesses, your first two don't count, and here's a hint: it's not me.

Oh! Helpful guide for reading this fic:

_Memories_

Present time

"Speak"

As for the Elvish, I used EXTREMELY basic Elvish that you can easily look up on the internet – or you already know thanks to the other fics you read (or the actual books, of course!).

As always, read and reviews, CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcome, and don't even try to approach me with a flame. I have fun with those. Hope you enjoy!

P.s. – there's one bad word in this fic that I used multiple times, so if it bothers you, **don't read it.** Thankies!

Yours,

~Eliana

No one had meant for this to happen.

The walls of Imladris were strong and structured, comforting and watchful, demanding and defiant, but all at the same time welcoming to the friends of the elves within. The city had allowed so many to walk her streets and sing songs to her glory without so much as ever asking a thing in return, and that, for many reasons, is why Erestor loved it. The calmness of the city was a welcomed change after the horrors of the life before and for almost seven hundred years, he found that he could begin laying his restless fears to their eternal slumber.

Or… at least that had been what he told himself for months before that unexpected arrival.

The Last Homely House was open to anyone – regardless of race, gender, beliefs, or pasts – and offered to help as many as it could only for the sake of keeping peace. For years under the care of Lord Elrond Peredhil and his family the House took care of her visitors as she would any elf born under her roof and saw to it that they left in a healthy light. This being so, the House was more than willing to accept the arrival of a young man (a young elf Erestor found himself correcting) one late evening.

The pounding of elven horse hooves against the cool stones of the trails near the House were a stark contrast to the twittering birds and gushing waters, easily calling the attentions of almost every elf in the healing house. Erestor had been making his way to the library when he saw the event unfolding. Elladan had brought the blonde-haired penneth into the healing house with an aura of urgency, bellowing for help from his father, from Glorfindel, from Erestor – anyone that would come to his aid.

The young prince's hunting trip had ended in a discovery that would change the course of Erestor's healing for the longest time. Elrond had asked no questions when the young elf was brought into one of the healing rooms and immediately set to work on him, removing the out-of-place thin chains and tightened leather straps that were bound to his neck and arms with a slight scowl of disgust at their purpose. They revealed the heavy bruises that the lord had suspected were there and quickly led the elder on a tale, trying to whisper to him of how it was that they came to be. Giving swift orders to his councilor who had arrived to help, they had set about removing the torn tunic and leggings that remained on the child's body, stripping them off and tossing them heedlessly into random corners of the room regardless of which direction it was in.

So many bruises pointed to possible severe internal injuries and both of the elven lords knew that the sooner they were treated the sooner the blonde child could heal.

It didn't take but ten minutes time for Elrond to hang his head in defeat, the young child's hand flopping lifelessly off the side of the cot. They had been too late.

The shattered ribs had found their way to the young one's lungs, punching them full of holes and allowing stick blood to enter, suffocating the elf by fault of his own body. There was a large impact wound on the back of his skull that had crushed the bone and rendered the brain tissue around it dead to the oxygen that rushed to it. Several stab and slash marks marred the back, legs, arms – well… everywhere on the child, allowing his body to bleed out freely.

The list went on.

They had been too late to save him. Erestor and Lord Elrond quietly gazed at one another, weary eyes meeting sad wise ones for a long while, silently sharing a message that neither of them could answer with direct certainty.

Who could have done this to one so young?

Several other elven healers had found their way into the room, setting about their grievous task of gently washing the body to prepare for its removal from the healing house. Erestor knew that he couldn't bear to see the dead body any longer and moved himself to the window at the end of the room, taking in a deep breath of what he hoped would be calming air.

"Hir nin?" One of the healers called to Elrond who had moved away from the bed as well and was cleaning the herb tray behind him, "What do you make of this, sir?"

Curiosity perked in both elder elves and they quickly made their way back to the bed to inspect what the healer had found.

It was then that Erestor felt his steel resolves shattering into the infinitesimal pieces he had tried so hard to gather before. By the time that Elrond recognized the brand's symbol marking and looked up to speak to Erestor, his advisor was gone, leaving nothing but a cold gust of air marking his exit.

Panic was not a feeling that Elrond's counselor had felt in a long time – it was a feeling that was not welcome within his mind to any extent and yet now he found himself sprinting through the healing house and halls at his full speed, almost knocking a couple elves over in the process. His robes made it even more difficult to keep himself upright but he managed, pushing himself to sprint as fast as he could up the marble stairs and toward his chambers. The door was slammed behind him, Erestor finding no more strength within himself as he slowly slid to the ground, half his body still pressed against the heavy wooden door.

His lungs burned with the sudden exertion of force from his legs and he found himself breathing in shaky gasps as he looked down at his trembling hands, his heart beat loud and painful in his ears. No sounds followed him from the hall and his heart began to slow a bit. The adrenaline leaving his system made him feel suddenly weighted and tired, thin hands trembling so hard that they appeared as a blur in front of the raven-haired elf.

Before he was even fully aware of what he was doing he found himself by the lit fireplace, pulling out an old trunk from under the curtains that billowed near his window. It was flung open with a fury and the elf reached inside, finding a few old books filled with pages of his own writing that he had kept for nearly four hundred yeas inside. He brought them before his struggling face before he let out a strangled cry, bringing them smashing to the cold marble floor and allowing the pages to fly in different directions. Grabbing them by the handfuls he chucked them into the fire, panting for breath all the while as tears stung his eyes and bile burned his throat.

When all of the pages were aflame he leaned back with a shuddering gasp and watched them burn into oblivion.

"What do you want from me?" was all he had the strength to say, arms and hands shaking from the exertion of strength.

Erestor found himself swallowing hard soon after, the flight reflex's adrenaline leaving his system and allowing his mind to catch up with his body. A slow blink over his sable eyes brought them to rest on the now empty trunk, finding that just the sight of the damned item brought churning to his stomach.

"Work," he suddenly mumbled, forcing himself to his feet and kicking the trunk aside, "I need to work."

He crossed the expanse between the lit fireplace and his desk, seating himself and quickly beginning to scratch away at the parchment that he found.

Food rations, construction orders, council matters – yes, this was all normal in Erestor's mind. The piles upon piles of parchment would usually work their magic on the haunted elf, bringing his clouded mind back from the dark depths that it had once lived in. Those memories were too close now – so close he could hear the screams in his head.

"_Slayer! Slayer! Slayer! Slayer!" the crowd had chanted and taunted as he fought for his life, letting out screams of approval when he felled his next opponent with a merciless cruelty._

The quill scratched harder on the work order, the Quneyan Elvish starting to look slightly shaky in the midst of his unstable hands.

"_Are you not entertained?" he screamed at them, blood pouring from his wounded lip into his mouth as he stared up at them, "Is this not why you have come here?"_

He dunked the quill back into the ink well, not noticing how the stone holder wobbled precariously with his urgent movement.

_The sword in his hand was thrown to the ground as he left in anger, the calls beginning again behind him, taunting him in his madness._

"Not here," Erestor mumbled again, bringing the quill swiftly over a new work order, scratching away at the details that needed to be changed. His head was beginning to pound heavily and the bile in his throat pressured more.

_He was no longer the leader of the loyal armies of the woodland, no longer commander of the holy Galrich Legions, no longer a servant to the immortal Elven kings. He was now a servant of the mob._

"Not here," he ground out again, pressing harder with the quill onto the parchment.

"_Slayer! Slayer! Slayer! Slayer!" they chanted together._

The quill was forcefully dunked into the inkwell again. Unbeknownst to Erestor it tipped over, spilling its contents onto his desk.

"_Slayer! Slayer! Slayer!"_

"Not here," Erestor growled, pressure increasing on the quill as the screams got louder in his head.

"_Slayer! Slayer! Slayer!"_

"Not here!" he cried out, not noticing the holes he had ripped in the work order before him.

"_**Slayer! Slayer! Slayer!"**_

SNAP!

The small quill gave way under the pressure, the stem bending and folding so violently that it let out a mighty crack, twisting in half in the hands of the advisor.

Erestor let go of it as though it had burned him, letting his head fall forward onto his ink-coated hands before he allowed himself a moment to try and calm down. The usual porcelain color of his face had peached with his distress, small veins on his neck pulsed outward toward his skin. Whether he knew of his current condition or not he did not elude too but simply stood and made his way toward his balcony doors.

They were flung open with unnecessary force, scattering the fallen leaves that had gathered on the stone floor. The white railing around the suspended stone gave the advisor something to cling to – but he did so perhaps too hard. The knuckles on his hands showed a deep white with the force he exuded on the rail and he only tried to grip harder, hoping that it would somehow move his mind from its current bind.

"_Why do you not meet our eyes and reveal to us your true name?" Gil-galad questioned to the elf whose eyes were focused onto the ground._

_A long moment of silence made the Eldar quirk a regal eyebrow in concern, his battle-hardened gaze softening as he fully drank in the appearance and demeanor of the darkened being._

"_Surely you do have a name?" Elrond Peredhil questioned next from where he stood slightly behind the lord, his eyes also drawing out the elf in front of him. _

"_It… depends on which name you ask me for, lords," the answer came almost silently, so quietly that both lords had to strain to hear it, "I have…many names sires."_

"_Your birth name," Gil-galad clarified to him, his hardened heart twanging in pain at the utterly destroyed creature that stood in front of him._

_The dark elf shifted his footing and bowed his head lower, giving the whispered answer of:_

"_Erestor."_

Erestor knew that he was slowly losing his calm – that prized calm that allowed him to keep his poise and out wit anyone. It was that calm and brilliance that had led Elrond to name him high Counselor of his house and to lead his home in his absence.

"_Your opponents make the mistake of giving you too much time to think," the edan told him in a horridly deep voice as he strung out the leather lash he held in his hand, "Not me."_

Unconsciously, one of the advisor's thin hands journeyed to his left upper arm, trying to stop the burning that he felt in his mind's eye. Logic told him that the brand had stopped its burning weeks after he had received it all those years ago but the memories convinced his mind otherwise, bringing forth the horrid stabbing pain and the scent of burning flesh that made him shift his right hand to cover his mouth in an attempt to hold his stomach calm.

It was a futile battle within himself, he was well aware. He had given himself the time to think and now it was going to bring him back to the pits of the hellish Mordor that lay within his own mind.

Erestor heard himself gag and squeezed his eyes shut in a silent order to his body to remain calm. Dipping his head downward the counselor tried to show himself that the breeze gently teasing his hair was no illusion – he was safe in Imladris with Lord Elrond and his family. He wasn't where his mind placed him.

It took his lethargic mind a long moment to register the presence next to him and the warm pressure of a hand on his cloth-covered right forearm. It sent him reeling with his natural reaction, twisting his body so that his left hand could come up and strike a blow to whomever was grasping his arm, his black eyes still shut as the reaction took place. His left hand was caught in a stronger one, his arm being tightened down to avoid causing his captor any pain.

"Erestor, sîdh," Lord Elrond's voice spoke to him suddenly, the grip loosening on his advisor's arms once a soft recognition flared across the black-haired elf's face.

Coal colored eyes opened slowly to view his lord, revealing the unshed tears that were harbored there. Elrond felt his hardened gaze weather down to a softened view, slowly relinquishing his hold on his advisor's left arm and gently rubbing his right with a caring hand. When he tried to pry Erestor's hand from his mouth the other elf gave a sudden shudder, making Elrond realize within a moment that the other was trying to fight being ill.

It was all understandable, the elvish lord told himself as he tried to steer his advisor away from his balcony spot. Such things were bound to happen when a person was forced to relive his worst experiences – even the 'stone hearted, ice coated, totally reclusive' (or so Glorfindel so elegantly put it) high advisor of Imladris wasn't immune to shock.

The lord raised a slow hand to touch his advisor's cheek, ignoring how the other tensed and flinched back at the touch.

"You're cold," Elrond mumbled, fingertips absorbing the coolness that was Erestor's skin.

He grasped his shuddering friend's shoulder and almost dragged him back into the room, moving him to the far side of the chamber where the counselor's bed was.

"Havo dad, Erestor," he commanded quietly, knowing that the other would follow his command. When the raven-haired elf was fully seated on the covers Elrond strode back across the room, closing the balcony doors again before retrieving the tray he had come with.

A small cup of ginger tea and some herbs lay balanced on it. Elrond placed it on the beside table before placing a few of the herbs into it, stirring it with a fine metal spoon to get them to dissolve completely before turning back to his struggling friend. Erestor now had his other arm wrapped around his abdomen, eyes tightly shut as he forced his breathing to slow, his throat burning with the obvious impending feeling of being ill. He opened his eyes when his lord crouched before him, watching the Eldar's movement with distinct scrutiny.

"Soga," was the order from the healer's lips as the small mug was presented to him.

No matter how much he wanted to, the advisor knew that he wouldn't be able to stomach anything.

"'Tis simply ginger tea and some herbs," the other explained in a low voice as he reached forward to pry Erestor's hand from his face noting the tense muscles beneath his hand, "It will help calm your stomach."

Raven tresses flew when the counselor shook his head, trying to tell Elrond what it is that he was trying to say without words.

"Do you trust me?" the sudden question came.

It surprised Erestor enough that he had to do a double-take on his lord, tilting his head in an obvious way of saying 'what?'.

"Do you trust me?" Elrond pressed again, peering with sharp eyes into the black abysses of his advisor's.

At the slight bob of his friend's head, Elrond brought the mug to the pale lips.

"Then drink, my friend," he told his advisor.

Erestor drank slowly, one shaking hand going to support the cup only to find his lord's there, holding it for him and keeping it steady. The warm gingerroot tea indeed immediately calmed his churning stomach, soothing it back to the way it had been before his dilemma. He welcomed the feeling with a content sigh, opening his eyes to meet his lord's again and found the other smiling.

"You see?" Elrond questioned him, giving a light pat on the knee before standing and moving back to the bedside table to replace the cup.

When silence reigned for a little too long Elrond turned to his advisor and spoke, the wise grey irises taking in the form of his exhausted companion.

"I never meant for this to happen," he apologized, taking Erestor slightly by surprise.

"Such things cannot be planned, my lord," the counselor answered back, his voice quiet and slightly rough from the harsh experience earlier.

"I know, but still I feel guilt for this. Had I known who –"

He caught himself before he could say something that he knew he shouldn't have and took a breath, blinking his eyes slowly.

"Had I known what this young one's death would cause I never would have let you enter that room."

Erestor nodded his head, reaching a still-shaking hand up to push some stray raven hairs out of his face and back behind his ear.

"It's been too long now, sire," he stated quietly, avoiding Elrond's eyes again, "nearly seven hundred years it has been now… and yet I find myself trembling like a sapling in the wake of a storm at the slightest mention of that…place."

His voice trailed off at the end, finishing his sentence with a slight rumble instead of a crisp conclusion.

"There may be a fair lot of time there, Erestor," Elrond told him kindly, "but you have not allowed yourself the luxury of grieving for it. That is why it remains painful on your heart."

"Such a thing should not require tears," Erestor replied bitterly, "I have no reason to face it now after all this time. It is past and I wish to be rid of it – it simply will not leave."

Black eyes looked up to his lord's then, almost pleading with the other in a way that made Elrond's breath escape him for a moment.

"What am I to do, sire? I can't escape it."

"Then don't run," Elrond told him, "No matter how fast you fly, you cannot escape what transpired there, my friend. It happened – and I'm truly sorry that it did – but you have come a long way from it."

The hollowed eyes flashed something that Elrond couldn't quite comprehend. For a moment, neither elf lord moved, blinked, or even breathed – they simply kept their gazes locked, one trying to find wisdom in his lord's words, one trying to provide help to his advisor and friend. After a pause, Elrond continued.

"These memories keep you up at night, mellon nin."

He was caught. Erestor knew that much.

"You lock yourself away in here for fear that they will return. You should have come to me. I would have made sleep easier for you to reach – you should have told me of this instead of pretending that everything was alright."

His counselor deflated at the reprimand, sagging his shoulders slightly.

"Seven hundred years, sire."

Elrond quirked a brow.

"Seven hundred years and I still hear their chants – their torment. Am I a damned being, my lord? Am I eternally… damned?"

"You are no damned creature, Erestor!" Elrond harshly reprimanded, making the black-haired elf jump with the sudden change in volume, "You are no more damned than lady Galadriel or Lord Glorfindel – no more damned than myself."

Elrond took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"You are a blessed creature, mellon nin. You are just too afraid to see it. Allow yourself to face this task and you will find peace."

"I cannot face it alone, my lord. I have tried but…"

"I never said to face it alone," Elrond told him wisely, drawing his advisor's eyes. He flinched back at seeing his lord suddenly so close to him, not having heard Elrond move, "Do not face it alone. Face it with a friend."

Erestor opened his mouth to respond but found that no sound left his throat, only a small wisp of air that told his lord everything he needed to know. The high counselor froze when his lord placed gentle hands one his face, gingerly pulling him forward before leaning down and placing a tender kiss upon his brow.

"You needn't do it alone. You know where to find me," he told the other, giving him a warm look before turning and grabbing the tray, heading toward the door.

Erestor found his breath and looked to his lap, finding that his hands had finally ceased their shaking.

"And Erestor?"

The black-haired head shot up, finding Elrond standing with the door open, watching him.

"Do stop calling me 'my lord'. It makes me feel old."

And it's the end! Laaaaa! Leave a couple sentences for a review and you'll be my hero forever!

(And for those of you wandering: why the heck is this named 'Bite Back'?, the answer is simple. The bite back on a gun it when you fire it, you get pushed back slightly too. Think about shotguns and how the shooter always bows back ever so slightly. With longbows – especially cherry wood bows – you sometimes get that bite back too, just not as powerful. The bite back in Erestor's life that I made should be pretty easy to spot.)


End file.
